Some Kinda Love
by WhiteHare
Summary: Why the heck would you date a mass-murdering vampire? Josie meets Mitchell when he holds her hostage after killing two girls in the upstairs flat. How does she end up the love of his life? T for language.
1. Scene 1 : Josie

She could even remember the dress she had been wearing when it happened.

It was a pink patterned dress that Caroline had told her looked _just_ like a designer one she had seen in a magazine. Josie's finances didn't run to designer stuff, not with the rent to find on the flat now that she had moved out of her parents' house, but loads of shops were doing reasonable imitations for a fraction of the price. Caroline had told her that she looked like a model in it. Caroline said lots of stuff.

Josie didn't kid herself that she was model material. Of course she'd give her eye teeth to look like Twiggy, or even Pattie Boyd. Heck, Pattie Boyd had ended up married to George Harrison and that wasn't to be sneezed at. He didn't get the attention that Paul and John got, but he had a mischievous twinkle in his eye that said he would be good fun on a night out, and Josie had always quite fancied him. But she was pretty enough when she made the effort and she and Caroline turned plenty of heads when they went out on the town.

She was going shopping up to Oxford Street with Caroline that afternoon; maybe Kings Road too, if their feet held out. Her wages were more Top Shop or Chelsea Girl than Kings Road and Carnaby Street, but a girl could look. Maybe she'd find something for Shelley's hen night in a couple of weeks.

Shelley and Pete getting married; who would have thought _that_ one would last? Scatterbrained Shelley and nice but not very bright Pete. Josie was going to need something to wear for the hen night that signalled "available, but not slutty" to any single men she happened to meet, or the "plus one" on her wedding invitation was likely to go to waste. Mr Right was taking his time finding her and in the meantime there wasn't even a Mr Wrong on the horizon, not since Rich.

They were planning on heading down to Soho after – hitting a couple of bars. If they were lucky they'd even get their drinks paid for – meet a couple of lads with their Friday's wages burning a hole in their pocket.

Another sip of coffee on her way out to the bedroom. Black, no sugar – her usual way to start the day.

Josie paused to check her reflection in the mirror. Yes, the dress really did suit her. That was what made shopping with Caroline such fun. She had a great eye and could always pick out the thing you would pass over on the rack but that would make you look fantastic, and she was a generous enough friend to call your attention to it. Not hide it at the back of the rack like certain other girls she could mention, who would let you go out looking like a dog's breakfast to make themselves look better.

Like the twins Alison and Amanda upstairs - Josie had been friends with them for a while, before she had caught Alison two-timing with her boyfriend – maybe Amanda as well, for all she knew. Turned out blondes were more his type after all. She hadn't seen Rich around for ages so she figured he'd moved on again. That suited Josie: no more awkward looking-anywhere-but-at-him moments when they passed on the stairs, trying not to brush against each other. No more trying not to hear the noises from upstairs.

From the racket last night she reckoned one of them must have a new chap on the go; it had sounded like they were practising for the sex Olympics. Pulling the blankets over her head hadn't helped and nor had burying her head under the pillows, but the ruckus had finally died down about three, leaving the house suddenly, eerily quiet, just when Josie had been considering pulling on her dressing gown and going to bash on their door. She wondered who the bloke was – if she knew him. The new stud.

She smirked. Stud? Alison should be so lucky. Plenty of men out there who _thought_ they were God's gift, but precious few who did more than a quick screw and onto the next girl. Sexual liberation was all well and good - it meant that the girls had an excuse to behave as the men always had – but it didn't seem to be doing much to help on the steady relationship front.

Maybe she was just too choosy, but there were some nutters out there and a girl needed to be sure she wasn't inviting a psycho back for coffee. How the hell were you meant to tell the maniacs anyway? The ones that had killed those poor little kids had looked pretty normal. Christ. It wasn't like they had it tattooed across their foreheads.

She went back to the kitchen for another gulp of coffee and poured out a bowl of cornflakes; "The best to you each morning". They tasted like little pieces of cardboard and needed a load of sugar on them to make them even vaguely edible, but she still bought them. They reminded her pleasantly of home - a cup of coffee and some cornflakes before she went out to school. Josie opened the fridge, pulled out the milk and sniffed suspiciously at it. Still good, but only an inch or so left at the bottom of the bottle. That was fine; the milkman always left a pint on Saturday mornings.

She opened the front door. A man was standing there, looking out of the landing window with her pint of milk in his hand and a hint of it on his lips. He started guiltily, looking at her with an intensity that shook her to her core.

He shot another troubled glance out of the window – what was out there that he was so worried about? She could hear car doors slamming: far more car doors than she would expect in their quiet neighbourhood on a Saturday morning. Before she could react – pull back inside the door and close it in his face - he had her by the chin, pushing her inside and slamming her up against the wall. His dark eyes were wild and dangerous mere inches from hers.

"_If I take my hand away, are you going to scream?"_


	2. Scene 2 : Mitchell

**This scene totally wasn't going to be like this - I was trying to figure out what caused the connection between Mitchell and Josie when there's really not much sign of it to me in the scene we saw in series 2 - but the writing fugue descended and this is what came out. So I figure it was meant to be : keep calm and carry on.**

**Back to 1969 next scene, I promise. -)**

* * *

"_You're an only child?" _He looked at the photograph –mother like an older version of her, father with hair receding at the temples and the girl beaming out from between the two.

"_Does that make a difference to anything?"_

"_Not really. I was an only child."_

"_I'm sure your parents are proud of the way you've turned out."_

His parents had been so proud of him when he joined up. Many of the boys he had grown up with had joined the army, returning home with stories to tell, money in their pockets and plenty of girls ready to show an interest. Not many other opportunities around for lads like him and the army gave him comradeship, a decent life and the prospect of a future.

Then the war came.

The temptation of a free state had been dangled in front of them – send your young men to war and we'll see you right afterwards. So career soldiers were supplemented by volunteers and he got a promotion: he would go to France with a corporal's stripes on his sleeve. All the lads said the war was there for the winning; they'd be back home by Christmas. They were young and immortal and life was good.

When his leave came to an end and he went for the boat that would take him to England, en route for France and the front line his mother had cried and clung to him. All along the quayside mothers and sons were saying goodbye, so he fought back the embarrassment and hugged her tightly, breathing in the scents he associated with her: lavender soap and baking. His father had shaken his hand and drawn him into an awkward embrace, pride warring with fear and sadness on his face. He had been named for him. John Mitchell.

"Oh, Johnny, take care of yourself. Don't you go doing anything stupid – you know what you're like."

"I'll be careful, mam. I'll be back home soon, you'll see."

He had kissed her quickly and gone up the gangplank, regulation boots clomping on the wooden slats, pack on his back, heavy kitbag in one hand and cigarette in the other. He paused at the top to drop the cigarette and grind it under his heel, then turned to wave. His mother waved weakly back before burying her face in his father's chest. His father put his arm around her and nodded curtly to his son, before leading his mother away.

He wasn't home for Christmas. Time rolled into one long interminable existence; cold and wet and frightened. Days and weeks of boredom and discomfort punctuated by the terror of bullets whistling past and the horror of seeing one friend after another maimed or killed. Stuck in the trenches, the machine guns cutting through their advances like a scythe. Digging in again for a few precious yards of French soil. Counting the cost in lives against the mud and dirt and finding it wanting. Sending cheerful letters home, "I'll see you soon, mam. Don't you worry about me. I've the luck of the Irish!"

No doubt his parents had been proud when he sent them word of his next promotion. Sergeant Mitchell now, second-in-command of his platoon – a responsibility he took seriously: the loss of any of his men like a wound to himself.

But in time even his luck ran out. Three years of charmed existence came to an end in June 1917 when he stumbled out of the fog, scared and disorientated to discover that there were worse horrors than Germans along the front line. Trading his own soul for the lives of his men without understanding the consequences.

When he found his way back to his lines they had almost given him up for lost.

He tried to deny what he had become –fought the hunger for as long as he could – but eventually he had to feed. He had run away afterwards, full of self-loathing and disgust. Arthur, who had survived three years at the front with him, had become his first kill. He was a monster – unfit to associate with humans – and had fled his lines to find Herrick and the others. His kind, now.

And on top of that, his captain had seen him go – running in panic from what he had done.

He didn't know what they had told his parents. The Ministry sent telegrams to the families of those killed or missing in action. Did they have a special letter or telegram for what he had done? Absent without leave. Deserter. Or did they allow his family the luxury of believing him merely missing without the stigma attached to cowardice?

Who had opened the door to the delivery boy? Had his mother sat there holding the telegram and crying while she waited for his pa to come back from work? Or had she left it on the kitchen table for his father? "You open it, John. I can't do it."

*"I regret to inform you...Sergeant John Mitchell... missing in action somewhere in France..."*

Had his father put his arm around his arm around his mam's shoulders and told her that "missing in action" still left them the hope that "killed in action" would have taken away from them forever? And for how long had that hope sustained her before she accepted that her only child had died in the mud and the mist of some French battlefield?

Except he hadn't. Well, not completely.

Undead. Vampire. Monster.

He had never gone back. Better his parents believed him dead than knew the truth. And once he embarked on his new life, he hadn't thought about his parents beyond burning the letters from his pocket as Herrick looked on. "Cut all ties with who you were, soldier," Herrick had urged him, "You're not that man now." He accepted his orders as he had become accustomed – following Herrick unquestioningly now, instead of the British Army.

And then he was Herrick's to the core. The wild abandon with which he accepted his new life - revelled in it, even – delighted and bemused Herrick in equal measure. Bloodthirsty, amoral and vicious – a side to himself he had never revealed before, released by the freedom of being a vampire. Killing sprees, blood and carnage, his last remaining humanity fading with every feed - with every death.

"_My parents died a long time ago."_

"_Did you kill them too?"_

None of them had ever reacted in this way. After the first alarm she had been calm, composed. She even appeared somehow confident that he wouldn't harm her. He pictured her lying on the floor, covered in blood. Imagined how she would taste – the thick warmth of her blood in his mouth. His tongue flicked across his lips.

But then a shred of humanity that he had thought long dead struggled through the blood soaked memories. He imagined the policeman at her parents' front door. Would it be the homely looking mother or the balding father who invited the policeman in? Would they sit in the living room or round the kitchen table? How would he break the news that their only child was dead? What poor bastard would get the job of blowing their world apart?

He couldn't do it to them. Couldn't have them receive the news that his parents had received – what? – fifty odd years ago. Seriously? That long? Fifty years of killing and hiding and lying. Fifty years of being permanently twenty four. He was so tired. Sick and tired of living this way.

For the first time in that many years someone had touched the long dormant human side of Mitchell. She made him feel like she looked into the depths of him – saw what he had done and could still see someone worth saving. For years he had hated and despised humans; they were weak and inferior and there to be killed for his amusement. But this girl had made him feel that most human of traits: empathy.

Whatever else would happen here, he wasn't going to kill her. Her parents at least would be spared the anguish of losing a child. He almost thought he liked her.


	3. Scene 3 : Josie

"_Help me."_

"_Why should I?"_

"_Because I can't help myself."_

ooooooooo

When she looked back on it, she couldn't even explain to herself why it had happened. They had responded to some connection between them. Human and vampire recognising something in each other that they missed. That they needed.

Lying in bed with him afterwards, it suddenly struck her. His skin was cold. Not icy, but noticeably cooler than hers. And when she lay with her head on his chest, there was no heartbeat and no rhythmic rise and fall. It was as if he only drew in a breath when he was going to speak. He had seemed human to her until then, apart from the eyes - she shivered involuntarily when she remembered the eyes – but when she pressed her ear to his chest, willing herself to hear his heart beating reassuringly, she had to accept that he was what he had said was true. That her lover had died many years before she was even born.

The police had interviewed her, she told him. A policeman and a policewoman, sitting on her couch and asking her what she knew about the events upstairs. She had told them what she could about Alison and Amanda without mentioning having seen him or Herrick. She would have turned Herrick over to them in an instant – he had given her the creeps – but she wouldn't risk implicating Mitchell.

"Now they are saying it was an accident. The chief inspector has even been in the paper and on the TV saying they made a mistake about it being a murder. He said there were lots of martini glasses in the room and he hinted that the twins had been taking acid. The new story is that they drank themselves to death - that they lost track of how much they had been drinking when they got stoned," her voice showed how much she believed that. "You don't take acid, do you?"

_For heaven's sake, girl. He's a sodding vampire. Are you really more worried about him taking a tab or two than ripping people's throats out?_

"Christ, no. I've got enough nightmares in my life without any artificially-induced ones. This has all the hallmarks of a vampire damage-limitation exercise. There's no way anyone in their right mind would have looked at those girls and seen an accident."

There were things she didn't want to know about what had happened in the flat above. A picture of two blood-splattered bodies flashed through her mind and she wondered again how she had ended up lying beside their killer. If Josie had fallen for him like this knowing full well what he was, they had had no chance. Poor bloody cows.

He slid his arm out from beneath her and rolled over to check the alarm clock on the bedside table. "Jesus. It's late. I need to be getting back."

"Back? Now?" He couldn't be leaving this soon, surely?

"We need to be careful. If Herrick finds out I've seen you he could make trouble for you. He... kind of thinks you're dead. And the London vampires might be investigating who killed on their patch."

"Can't you stay tonight? Go back in the morning?" She slipped her hand round the back of his neck to pull him close enough for a kiss. "Please?"

He sighed, clearly reluctant, but drew back. "I've got to go."

Slipping out of bed, he dressed quickly, finding clothing strewn around the room where he had dropped it in his urgency earlier. She watched him, drinking in the sight of him. God, he was lovely. His tie was discarded by the bed and he picked it up and slung it untied around his neck, stooping to look at something on the floor by the bedside.

A book landed on the bed beside her with a soft thump. Dracula, by Bram Stoker, bookmarked about a quarter of the way through.

"You doing your homework?" asked Mitchell,a hint of amusement in his dark eyes. "For the record, I don't sleep in a coffin– too bloody uncomfortable – no way I'd get my eight hours in one of those. And there's nowhere to put your alarm clock or your glass of water."

Josie blushed. "Well, it's not exactly the sort of thing that gets covered in the problem pages of women's magazines. I'd know what to do if you were secretly gay or had a drug problem. Having a boyfriend who is a vampire is a new one on me."

"Is that what I am?"

"Well you told me you were. And unless there's another reason why you don't have a heartbeat I'm inclined to go with that as an explanation."

"No," he said, eyes twinkling gently at her, "your boyfriend. I think I kind of like that. Means you want to see me again and it sounds... normal. Human." He considered for a moment. "Yeah, I think I like that.


	4. Scene 4 : Mitchell

"Wait a minute. You want me to go to a _wedding_ with you?" Mitchell's eyebrows shot skywards as he considered the implications of what she had just said.

"Why not?"

"Well for starters that means meeting your friends and that makes it kinda... official, you know? And what do you say when they ask how we met? He flicked an involuntary glance at the ceiling, as if seeing through it to the flat beyond. The flat where he had killed the two girls such a short time before. "I can see your explanation of _that_ going down really well."

She smiled indulgently at him. "Silly, don't you remember? We met in a bar. I watched you for ages, trying to look sophisticated with my cigarette while plucking up the courage to talk to you. My legs were like spaghetti when I did."

He smiled faintly at her creation. "And then you worked your way through most of my smokes, like you normally do. Nearly four bob a packet they are now. Jeez. They were fivepence ha'penny a packet when I started smoking. You wait – they'll use decimalisation to put the price up some more. Fucking thieves."

"And of course there's a killer on the loose in the neighbourhood so like a gentleman you walked me home and ended up staying for breakfast."

"Yeah, sugar puffs. I like sugar puffs."

"I don't buy sugar puffs. Anyway, this is my fantasy first meeting, not yours, so you'll eat corn flakes and enjoy them. What sort of big kid are you? Sugar puffs are for children."

He shrugged, "Fair enough. But if you ever revise the fantasy, black coffee and sugar puffs would go down a treat." He wrapped his arms around her and she smiled as he nuzzled into her neck. "Make sure you get the ones with a toy in the box." He drew away before he was tempted to pull her into the bedroom and display some distinctly ungentlemanly behaviour.

Then he sighed and said, "I can't go to the wedding, Josie."

"What? But I've told them you're coming; they are all dying to meet you."

Dying. Yeah. Bad choice of words there.

"No, I mean I can't go to the _wedding_. The reception is fine, just not the whole "I do" thing. So wasn't that in that vampire manual that you were reading? Vampires have a bit of a problem with consecrated ground. It could be a bit of a giveaway if I start writhing on the threshold and the priest chucks holy water on me." He laughed bitterly at the look on her face. "Hey, don't worry about it. You just don't know how it all works yet."

ooooooooo

As far as the other guests were concerned, he'd had to work that morning, so he caught up with the wedding party at the reception. Taking a glass of champagne from a proffered tray and excusing himself as he went, he slid between the other guests to Josie's side, slipped an arm around her waist and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. She looked great, he thought, and wondered again what on earth she was doing with him. She was a strange chick.

This whole wedding thing was a bit weird. He'd been away from humans for so long, he almost didn't know how to act around them. Vampires didn't form close attachments. You need strong emotions for those: love, hate – the things you lose when you become undead and relinquish the mortal part of you. Lose your soul. Yet all around him were humans doing the things humans do: empathising, flirting, forming relationships, establishing hierarchies. Where did he fit in?

Josie was in her element. Usually quite reserved, she obviously knew most of the guests and was enjoying herself with a drink in her hand and another one or two in her already, by the looks of her. He didn't think she'd even noticed that he was finding the situation awkward. Damn it, he should never have agreed to this.

Beer was more his thing than champagne, although champagne had contributed to one memorable night with Herrick in Berlin in the '20s. That had been a good night with a good kill at the end of it...

NO!

Mitchell made a bolt for the bar and leaned up against it, fighting to regain control of himself. He couldn't start thinking like that. Not here. Not surrounded by Josie's friends. It meant so much to her that he was trying to stay clean. "Pint of Watney's, mate, please." He gulped half of it down and wiped his mouth with a shaking hand. Suddenly he was acutely aware of the scent of everyone around him – fresh blood for the taking – and one, subtly different from the rest. His nose flared as the scent got stronger and stronger – whoever it was, was coming closer.

"Pint of Worthington's, pint of Watney's and two Babychams, please," a young man in his best wedding suit sat on the bar stool next to Mitchell and opened his wallet, taking out a ten shilling note. He nodded to Mitchell, "You alright?"

It was him. A distinct smell of dog – just his luck to run into a bloody lyco at this do. Mitchell could feel his face twisting as he tried to conceal his distaste. "Yeah, I'm alright." He grabbed his glass and headed back to Josie, catching her by the arm and pulling her away from the group she was talking to. "That bloke at the bar – who is he?"

"That's David. He's Sara's boyfriend; she's over there in the yellow dress."

"Do you see him socially?"

"Sometimes. I used to work with Sara and we go on nights out occasionally. Why?"

Shit. She couldn't socialise with a fucking werewolf. Vampires hated werewolves – scum that they were – and if he had to mix with him it wouldn't end well.

He watched David closely, waiting for his opportunity. When he headed for the gents, Mitchell followed him, loitering outside the door and grabbing him when he came out. With his hand clapped over David's mouth and his other hand dragging David's arm roughly up against his back, he bundled him expertly out of the nearest fire exit and pinned him up against the wall outside. He'd learned a trick or two over the years. A swift punch to the stomach left David doubled over.

"What are you doing mixing with decent people, you filthy werewolf? You stay away from them, you hear?"

The man turned sad eyes to him, hands on his knees as he recovered from the blow. "How did you know? No-one knows. It only happened a couple of months ago. Epping Forest. How could you..." His voice trailed away, confused and uncertain.

Great. Not just a werewolf, but a newly turned one too. One that didn't know the rules yet. Like steer clear of vampires. Poor sucker probably didn't even know that vampires were real too.

"You need to go home – now. If I see you hanging with this crowd again I'll not be answerable for the consequences." Mitchell's eyes turned to black and his fangs showed briefly – just enough for the little shit to know what he was dealing with. "People like me kill people like you for fun."

"Mitchell?" Josie was framed in the fire door. "What's going on? Is he ill?"

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, forcing the vampire to retreat and his features to return to normal before turning to look at her. "He's had a few beers too many, I think. I was just going to phone a cab to take him home, wasn't I, mate?"

"Yeah," gasped David, still staring in horror at Mitchell. "I feel a bit sick." He slumped to his knees and vomited painfully.

"I don't know," said Mitchell, "some people just can't hold their drink."

ooooooooo

The DJ was playing Mungo Jerry. David had been despatched home and Mitchell and Josie were sitting with Caroline and Sara and a few more of her friends. Mitchell was enjoying being around them and experiencing the easy camaraderie of Josie and her crowd when Josie leaned across to him and spoke to him in a low voice pitched so that only he could hear.

"That stuff outside with David. That wasn't anything... vampirey, was it?"

"Trust me, OK? I've told you I've changed and I mean to stick with it. Hell, I'm even eating corn flakes now – what more do you want?"

He would swear off blood for her, if he could, but being civil to a werewolf? Christ, even he had his limits.


	5. Scene 5 : Josie

**A/N I've taken a certain perverse pleasure in having Mitchell call his evening meal "tea" just to spite Kemp. :')**

* * *

How the hell had she got into this?

Murderers were supposed to stare out from police photos with a haunted look that made you shudder. Made you say to each other down the pub, "How did no-one see that coming? See what a wrong 'un he looks. Weirdo."

Mitchell was different. He didn't quite fit in yet – fifty years of mixing predominantly with vampires had rather messed with his social skills – but her friends were coming round to him. He smiled more now; his own haunted look was fading and he'd even cracked a few jokes at the reception with a couple of beers inside him. Gradually he was becoming more human again. She could see it. She wondered if he could feel it.

Caroline fancied him; she could tell. She tended to go for the angst-ridden types anyway, especially if they looked like they could use a square meal. Her last two had been an artist from the Elephant and Castle and a guitarist from a failing band in Tooting Bec and she now joked that she had sworn off blokes who lived on the Northern Line. Josie could hardly tell her that far from being the man of Josie's dreams, her current flame was a seventy six year old vampire who might just rip out her throat and drink her blood at any moment. Especially after the conversation they had had earlier.

"Did you hear that Sara and David split up?"

"Really? That didn't last long."

"No, she said that he went really weird a few weeks ago – starting crying for no apparent reason, going out at strange hours and not coming back till the following morning – strange stuff, not like him. Then the day after the wedding he called her at her parents' house and told her he couldn't see her any more. That he was bad news for her, or something."

Josie's stomach had churned. The day after the wedding?

_That bloke at the bar – who is he? Do you see him socially?_

She was sure that Mitchell had something to do with it.

"Josie..." Caroline had looked cautiously up at her from under mascara-thickened lashes, "Sara said he told her to watch out for Mitchell. Keep away from him. Wouldn't say anything else though." She had hesitated a moment, wrapping her hands around her coffee mug and blowing on the steaming liquid. "Are you... are you in any sort of trouble, Jose? I mean, what do we know about him really?"

"Of course I'm not in trouble." Was she? Getting mixed up with a vampire would seem like trouble to most right-minded people. "And I like living here – for the rent it's a lot bigger than anything else I looked at. You saw some of those bedsits I looked at in Camden Town – they were awful."

"You know I like him for your sake but Jesus, Jose. Sometimes the way he looks at people – so intense and brooding. He looks... I don't know... dangerous maybe? Unpredictable? You know?"

Caroline was worried about her, she knew that. A lesser friend would have kept quiet. She knew Caroline cared.

"I know. He's OK, really he is."

ooooooooo

Mitchell was waiting when she got home on Friday night. She was a little late; he was a little early; and he was sprawled across the doorway, long legs stretched out in front of him. He was clutching a dozen red roses and wearing a broad smile. "I brought us some tea. It should still be hot; it's well wrapped," and she recognised the tantalising aroma of a chip supper.

They sat side by side on the sofa eating fish and chips out of the newspaper, newsprint staining their hands. She made the big mistake of rubbing the side of her nose and he chuckled at the oily black smears she left – chip grease and ink - then made them worse when he tried to help. Laughing, he added his own embellishment to her cheeks and she planted an oily black thumb print on his nose. She giggled at the look on his face, melting inwardly as the tense lines of his face softened into playfulness. Soon they were both laughing helplessly, both faces ink smudged and tear stained and the fish and chips were forgotten as they tried out her sofa for size.

She looked in the mirror later as she washed the ink away afterwards and realised that she was smiling back at herself. _Watch yourself, girl, it looks like you're falling for this one_, she warned her reflection severely, but it just beamed happily back at her.

He came into the bathroom, stood behind her and put his hands gently on her hips. Her smile became a little hesitant when it registered that he wasn't in the reflection with her, but soon returned as his kisses sent ripples of sensation across her shoulder and up her neck.

"What are you smiling at?"

"I'm just thinking what a nice feeling falling in love is," she said.

"Mmm. Isn't it?" And then Josie squealed in surprise as he picked her up and carried her to the bedroom.

ooooooooo

They moved the record player into the bedroom and spent most of the weekend there. She played him The Kinks and Herman's Hermits, he played her The Velvet Underground and Canned Heat and they both agreed that they loved The Beatles. They lived on coffee and beer and whatever they could scrounge from her kitchen.

They ate and drank; they smoked and listened to music. They made love.

They were happy.

She looked at the relaxed man in bed beside her and could hardly believe it was the same person that had burst into her flat a few weeks before. If he _had_ warned David off he must have had good reason, she told herself. He's a good bloke: he wouldn't just threaten someone for the hell of it. She could almost forget he was a vampire.

She sighed happily and murmured, "I wish this could last forever."

"Be careful what you wish for; you might just get it," he mumbled into the pillow, then rolled over and said, "Seriously, forever is overrated. Take it from someone who knows."

She curled in beside him and considered forever as a possibility for the first time. She didn't know what could kill a vampire, other than the obvious stake through the heart thing, and seriously, did anyone even do that any more? His forever had been seventy-odd years so far, but could go on for hundreds more, where she would age and wither and die. Would he really stay exactly the same? Not a grey hair or a wrinkle to show the passing time? How wonderful. How dreadful. She thought about outliving her friends, her friends' children, grandchildren even and suppressed a shudder.

Would she share forever with him, if he gave her the chance?

She sighed. That decision would come when it would. She'd enjoy now, and see what tomorrow would bring them.

He wouldn't have to wait on the doorstep any more, anyway. Before he left she gave him her spare key. She thought that made him official.


	6. Scene 6 : Mitchell

Herrick sighed deeply at the sight of his right hand man. "God, Mitchell, you look bloody rough. You need a good feed inside you. Come on." He grabbed his coat off the back of the chair and made for the door, pausing to look quizzically at Mitchell. "Come on then, chop chop. Least said, soonest mended. That sort of stuff."

Mitchell's face showed what he thought of that idea. "I don't need a 'good feed'; I'm fine. Perfectly fine." He wasn't. He was tired and hungry, human food filling his stomach but not meeting the need. Not stopping the cravings. In time he'd start to fade, and ultimately he'd die. He didn't want to think about what he'd do if it became a choice between feeding and dying.

Herrick rolled his eyes. "When did you last feed? A week ago? A month? Longer?" He shook his head, "You're not trying _that_ again? I thought we established the last time you tried it that it just doesn't work. When was that? '63? '64? Vampires need blood, my lad. Now where's this harebrained idea come from this time?"

"Nowhere. It doesn't matter. It's not a harebrained idea." Damn it. Herrick always made him go on the defensive. Mitchell closed his eyes, summoning his strength to fend off the persuasion he knew was coming.

"Oh, Mitchell, Mitchell. It doesn't matter how long I know you I never understand you. There's the Mitchell who went through Berlin like the avenging angel – do you remember Berlin? – what a weekend that was, eh? And then there's the Mitchell who let that bird out of the back of the car and said she 'escaped'." Index and middle fingers of each hand emphasised how unlikely Herrick had found that scenario.

"She escaped, Herrick. I told you. She struggled. She was quick." They had been through this dozens of times. It was a good five years ago now – wouldn't Herrick ever let it go?

He had been trying to do without blood then, too. He had managed to stay strong that night, even when he was sitting in the back of the car with her, smelling her and wanting to take her blood. Wanting to drink her dry. The vampire in him warring with what was left of his humanity. He had scared her, true enough - showed her his eyes - but she'd got away from him alive. Not many could say that.

That attempt had been doomed to failure, ending in blood-drenched slaughter with a couple of girls he'd offered a lift home from a pub. They'd asked him in – stupid, stupid bitches, inviting him over their threshold. A couple of drinks later and his resistance was shot. He'd woken to a scene much like the one in the flat above Josie's, covered in blood and sickened and disgusted with himself. He'd been so damned weak. But he had Josie now. She was strong enough for both of them; she'd see him through.

"I've been thinking. Maybe it's time for us to settle somewhere. I've got the brains and you've got the attitude – we could have ourselves a nice little set-up in no time. But I need you killing for it to work. People respect me, but I need my evil henchman – my blackheart." Herrick rolled the word round his tongue, relishing it, licking his lips. He got a kick out of Mitchell's killing – taking the credit for having turned the most vicious vampire in decades and wanting him by his side. "They need to see you beside me and quake in fear. Poor old Seth just doesn't have that effect on people, although he tries hard. You just need to do your scary vampire face at people and they toe the line. What do you say?"

_No, Herrick._ That was what he desperately wanted to say. _I'm not doing it any more._

But he wasn't ready to separate himself totally from the vampire community, and that would be what it meant. He couldn't cut himself off from Herrick: not yet. They were partners: Butch and Sundance; Jesse and Frank; Ronnie and Reggie; Herrick and Mitchell. Vampires all over the country never mentioned one name without the other. Like it or not, Herrick was his sire. He was bound to him.

And if he did, how would he manage as a lone vampire in a human world. Was it even possible to survive, cut off from his own kind?

Herrick hadn't given up on him yet. "Come on, it'll be like old times - you and me. You know they tell Mitchell stories right across the country, don't you? Vampires will flock from all over to join our chapter." He paused, watching Mitchell closely.

Mitchell's jaw was tense, his fingers were clenched into fists and his eyes were narrowed. He was giving himself away, he knew that. Herrick knew him too well; he was reading every nuance of his body language. He had more than himself to think of now. He had Josie. She was so vulnerable – so human. He forced himself to relax, uncurling his fingers and dropping tense shoulders.

He nodded mutely, loathing himself.

"Good." Herrick nodded in satisfaction. "You know, I'd hate to think that this was something to do with those girls in London. You've not been the same since, and you did come out of that other girl's flat looking remarkably clean and dapper."

"I _told_ you, I strangled her. I'd fed well the night before and I figured we'd draw less attention to ourselves if I wasn't wandering through London covered in blood." He gave a nasty smile, hoping it looked more convincing than it felt. "Anyway, I'd not strangled anyone for a while; it makes a nice change. You can feel the moment when they give up fighting you. I'd almost forgotten that feeling."

That seemed to convince Herrick, who slapped him on the shoulder. "Good man! Now, shall we go and find you someone to feed on? I need you sharp – we've got a lot of work ahead of us."

"How about the weekend? We'll head out, just the two of us. Find a party, cause a bit of a commotion – like old times." And that would give him a few days to come up with a convincing get out. Only delaying the inevitable. If he was going to go all the way with this he would have to stop mixing with vampires altogether or they'd find some way to tempt him off the wagon.

"Sure. The weekend. I'll look forward to it."

How would Herrick react when he learned that Mitchell had lied to him about Josie? That he'd been seeing her – was _involved_ with her. Herrick was deranged enough to kill her for the sake of it, even though she had kept quiet about them to the police, just as Mitchell had told him she would. The only way for her to be safe around vampires was to _be_ a vampire. Could he turn her? Would she even want him to? Would he inflict on her what Herrick had doomed him to?

Loving a human was bloody complicated.


	7. Scene 7 : Josie

She was on one of her twice-weekly duty visits to the parents' house. No, that was wrong. Duty made it sound like a chore and it wasn't, not really. Only these days she looked forward to the weekends more than ever - her Mitchell time.

He'd told her that he was picking her up on Friday and taking her away for the weekend. He had been insistent on the phone; he needed to get out of town for a while. No, he couldn't tell her why, just for her to have a bag packed and be ready to go when he collected her.

The idea of a dirty weekend away obviously didn't bother Mitchell, but Josie was a bit more concerned by what people would think of her. She raided her mother's jewellery box and came away with her mum's wedding ring, rarely worn these days. She had put it aside to be resized and never got around to it. Mum would never notice if Josie borrowed it for a few days.

When he arrived she knew there was something wrong. He was agitated, chain smoking and talking far more than he normally would. "I have cigarettes, a change of clothes and a map of Bristol. Oh, and a toothbrush. Shit, did I remember the toothbrush? Anyway, we're off there for the weekend."

"Bristol? Why Bristol?"

"Because I've got a map of Bristol. Makes sense to go somewhere we've got a map of, right?"

Right. She supposed it made some sort of weird logic on some planet or other.

"Not that we're likely to need it – I have plans in mind for the weekend and they don't involve sightseeing." The wicked smirk on his face gave her a clue, if one were needed.

ooooooooo

"Yes, sir, a double room in the name of...?"

"Mr and Mrs McCartney."

She choked back a laugh, trying to cover it up with a coughing fit, but in the lift she laughed out loud. "You could at least have said 'Mr and Mrs Harrison'. You know George is my favourite."

He grinned. "Lennon is the genius, but I figured they'd guess I was taking the piss if I said Lennon. With my accent McCartney is plausible, at least."

He swept her up and carried her over the threshold. She clung round his neck and he lifted her as easily as a doll, dumping her unceremoniously on the bed. He fell on the bed beside her and for a while they didn't even notice what the rest of the room was like.

ooooooooo

That set the tone for the weekend. They barely moved from the bed except to find food in the restaurant downstairs with Mitchell venturing outside once for cigarettes. He came back with a big block of chocolate and fed it to her chunk by chunk, stealing the occasional bite and grinning at her squeals of outrage.

On Sunday afternoon they just lay and talked, awareness that they had to return to the real world drawing in fast. Once she got him going the tales poured out of him; she was amazed at the places he had been and the things he had seen. He spared her parts of the stories which she knew must have been there; how many people _had_ he killed in Berlin or Marrakesh or Rome?

When eventually he dozed off, the visions he had told her about seemed to be troubling him. She lay next to him, feeling him move restlessly, muttering and moaning. Most of what he said was incoherent, but one name in particular was haunting him. Arthur. Who was Arthur?

She put her hand on his chest, calling his name gently to wake him. He started, his eyes snapping open in an instant – and they were jet black.

She gasped and pulled away from him, halfway out of bed before she knew she had moved. His whole body tensed, his mouth opening to reveal his fangs and a long slow hiss of breath escaping him. She glanced frantically at the door to the room. Could she get there before him? Could she scream loudly enough to get someone to come and rescue her, or would involving someone else only mean another corpse on the floor? Was this the moment she would die?

But then his shoulders relaxed and he covered his face with his hands, his body wracked with silent sobs. Every line of his body showed his anguish. "I'm sorry, Josie. I'm so, so sorry." When he took his hands away his eyes were normal again, though red rimmed with tears, but sadder than she had ever seen them. "I was dreaming – dreadful things. I didn't know it would make me do that."

Trembling still, her breathing uneven and the pounding of her heart starting to slow a little, she slid back between the sheets. She put out a cautious hand to touch his face and he leaned into the caress.

"I'm sorry I scared you. I never meant for you to see me like that."

"I shouldn't have woken you. You were having a nightmare, I think."

"They are coming every time I sleep now, the people I have killed," he said, the dark rings pronounced beneath his eyes. "I used to be able to escape seeing them by sleeping, but now they follow me there. When I'm awake I can see them and smell them. When I'm asleep I am there; I can touch them – taste them. Oh God, Josie, I can taste them." Mitchell shuddered convulsively and covered his face again; his eyes filling with tears once more. "I don't know if it will ever stop. And I don't know anyone who has been clean long enough to tell me if they will ever leave me be. Sooner or later I'll have to feed to stop them tormenting me. What if I wake up from a nightmare and kill you before I know what I'm doing?"

"Maybe if you talk about it to someone. Get it out in the open."

"Sounds like confession. How very Catholic of you."

"Acknowledging them might make them go away. There was one name you were saying over and over in your sleep. Mitchell, who was Arthur?"

He closed his eyes and she waited patiently for him, knowing how hard it would be for him to tell her and hoping that he could trust her enough. He had asked her to help him, but it seemed he had to help himself after all.

"They say you never forget your first time," he said finally, "That's true of vampires too..."

ooooooooo

The watcher was bored with sitting in the car, even with the radio on. He didn't dare take his eyes off the hotel entrance - sure as fate he'd miss them leaving if he did.

When they finally left the hotel, late on Sunday afternoon, he wound down the window and poked the Polaroid camera out. He glanced up quickly. Bright enough to get a decent picture but not so sunny that the glare on the lens might give him away. Good. It was a shame Mitchell wouldn't show up on the photo – that would have really freaked her out. But at least now he could get the bloody picture and get the heck out.

They came out of the hotel hand in hand, smiling and laughing together. Mitchell slipped his arm around Josie's waist and pulled her close for a moment, kissing her briefly. He pulled a cigarette packet from his pocket and offered her one, removing one for himself. A silver cigarette lighter flared briefly and they continued down the steps hand in hand. This was it. A shot of her by the hotel sign would be perfect.

"Come on, Mitchell, bring your bit of skirt a little closer. Come on, Mitchy boy," the watcher murmured, finger poised over the shutter release.

The clunk when he depressed it sounded so loud to him in the car that he could hardly believe they didn't hear it too, but they carried on oblivious to everything but each other. The square of photo paper slid out of the camera and he dropped it on the passenger seat with the other one – the picture of a suburban house that he'd been sent round to take. God knows why. The boss wasn't known for his interest in real estate, as a rule.

The watcher smiled slowly. He had known for years that Mitchell would blow it eventually. Fifty some odd years of living in his shadow – he had waited patiently for his chance to prove to Herrick that he should be his right hand man, not that bloody Mick.

The picture on the film was starting to emerge and he gave a satisfied smile. Oh yes, Herrick would be pleased with that photo, right enough. Seth put it safely away in the glove box and started the engine. Mitchell's little plaything would find out soon what happens when you try to run with vampires.


	8. Scene 8 : Mitchell

"_Take that off!"_

"_Why?"_

"_Because I'm the one giving the orders. Now take it off."_

ooooooooo

His hand was shaking and he clamped it around his mug of coffee, staring at his hand and willing the shaking to stop. When he looked up she was watching him, anxious, like a bird in a trap.

"What's the matter, Mitchell? Are you... hungry?"

"Jesus, Josie, I don't know how much more of this I can take. I almost didn't come today. I don't trust myself. I'm scared of what I might do."

"I'm not scared of you." She used the words she had used the first time they met.

Once again he replied, "Maybe you should be."

He wanted her able to protect herself, if necessary. It would hurt him now, in his human form. He wasn't sure if it would work with the full force of the blood lust on him, but it was as good as she was likely to get.

"Have you still got your silver cross?"

"Yes, it's in my dressing table drawer."

"Fetch it."

He watched as she hurried to get it. "Here," she held it out to him, the silver glinting in the sun from the window.

He flinched, drawing in a sharp breath and turning away as the sight of it burned his eyes and sent pain shooting deep into his skull. He almost welcomed the distraction that the pain provided from the memories – from the hunger. "Keep it in your pocket. Have it with you always."

A cigarette might help. His hand shook again as he lit up and held out the lighter to light hers. "It's getting harder. This is the longest I've ever been dry and it's getting so much harder. I'm doing it for you, Josie, but I'm terrified at the thought that I might hurt you. If the monster breaks free even your cross might not save you." He gave a long shuddering sigh. "Oh God, Josie, why am I even still here? Why are you?"

She took his hand and kissed it gently, lips brushing against his knuckles.

"Because I love you," she said.

No-one had loved him since he died. No-one had loved him for far too long a time.


	9. Scene 9 : Josie

As soon as she walked in the front door she knew something was up. The flat just felt wrong. Too quiet? Not quiet enough? Something.

She went into the kitchen and knew she wasn't alone. The sugar caddy was open and a spoon lay on the counter top in a cooling puddle of tea. Could be Mitchell then; he took sugar in his tea – but it didn't have the feel of Mitchell. It felt more... chilling, somehow.

"Mitchell? That you?"

"Through here." A man's voice, but not Mitchell's. She fingered the cross in her jacket pocket. Maybe that would give her some measure of protection, if this was vampire stuff.

She went through into the lounge. Sitting on the edge of her sofa, nursing a steaming mug of tea, was the man she had last seen in a borrowed policeman's uniform the day she had met Mitchell. She shuddered. He gave her the creeps.

"How did you get in?"

"Well, you know. Supernatural being. Stuff of myth and legend. Walking through walls a speciality." He smiled nastily, baring his teeth. "Actually, I went through Mitchell's pockets – figured he'd be unlikely to have chosen a key fob with a picture of a ballet dancer on it for himself and remembered all your dance posters and books and made the connection. Funnily enough the key fit your lock. Strange that, eh? What a coincidence. I made myself a cup of tea; I hope you don't mind." He raised his mug and took a swig – the one with the pictures of strawberry plants on it. "Oh, by the way, you're short of sugar."

"What are you doing here?"

"Warning you off. Or killing you – whatever it takes." He settled back onto her sofa, patting the cushion beside him. Josie crossed to the other side of the room and perched on the arm of a chair, awkward and uncomfortable. The chain of the cross twined through the fingers thrust deep in her pocket. At what point did she use it? Would it have more effect if he was doing the eyes and fangs thing, or less? She should have asked Mitchell more, instead of assuming that she would never need to use it against him.

Herrick shrugged and continued, "I've had a feeling there was something going on with Mitchell for a while now. I mean, you don't turn a chap into a vampire and go on killing sprees with him for fifty years without getting a pretty good feel for him – sixth sense, if you like – and he's not been himself lately. He's my right hand man, Miss...ah?" Josie stared at him, stone-faced. "Right. I'm Herrick, by the way."

"I know who you are," she ground out, "he's told me about you."

"All bad, I hope," grinned Herrick. "Yes, Mitchell's my right hand man. My lieutenant, you could say. He's not going to become your lapdog, girl. He won't _change_ for you." He sneered and leaned forward intently. "He couldn't even if he wanted to. He's a killer. A predator. You're trying to keep a barracuda in your bathtub and sooner or later he will turn on you."

"So what are you trying to say?"

"You're going to tell him that you're through. That you can't take the risk."

"But he _can_ change. He _has_ changed, even since I met him. I'm not going to dump him on your say so."

Herrick fixed her with a look that made her blood turn to ice. "You're making the mistake of thinking that you have the choice."

"So why not just kill me? Why go to all this trouble to warn me off?"

"I want Mitchell with me. If he's told you _anything_ about his past it will be a fraction of a fraction of what he's done. He's the darkest, most evil vampire in decades – maybe even centuries – and he has given up blood for you." He leaned forward. "That's not right. He's mine. If he thinks you've rejected him he'll come back to us but if I kill you I run the risk of pushing him away forever. You _will_ tell him you're through, you know." He glanced down into his tea, and when he looked up and met her gaze his eyes were completely black – like eyeballs of solid jet.

Josie gasped and recoiled from him. The first time she had seen eyes like that she had screamed, believing she was going to die. This time she didn't. She was too scared even to scream. Her mind shrieked at her to pull the cross from her pocket, but her body wouldn't seem to comply – she was frozen with terror and unable to do more than whimper helplessly.

"I've got a feeling you are foolish enough to try to defy me and carry on seeing him. I'll know if you do and I _will_ kill you whatever the price; I don't give two last chances. You are going to move out. Next time Mitchell tries to use this key, I want the place empty – no forwarding address. You understand?"

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. This man had managed to do what Mitchell had not: scared her to the bone.

"I'll let myself out. Thanks for the tea. And I'll make sure Mitchell gets his key back – wouldn't want him suspecting that I had anything to do with this now, would we?" He stood to go, then reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. "Oh, I almost forgot this." He handed her a white envelope, unmarked on the outside. "Just in case you need any further persuasion."

Her door slammed and Josie listened to his footsteps on the stairs, then another bang as the front door shut behind him. She watched from behind the curtain as he pulled keys from his pocket and slipped behind the wheel of a car parked out on the road. It pulled away and she leaned against the wall by the window, eyes closed, breathing deeply.

She fingered the envelope nervously: Herrick's parting shot. Her thumb broke the seal of the envelope and trembling hands pulled out three Polaroid photographs: Josie and Caroline out shopping in Oxford Street the lunchtime before she went to Bristol with Mitchell; Josie, in front of the Clifton Hotel, her arm outstretched to the side where she and Mitchell had been holding hands, the tendril of smoke above where his head should have been the only indication that he was there; and the front of her parents' house a few miles away, with her dad's Cortina parked outside.

Oh Jesus, they had been following her. The threat was unmistakeable. They would kill all those she cared most about. Then, and only then, they would come for her. She slid to the floor, legs unable to support her. Were they out there? Were they watching her now? She wasn't even safe in her own home any more.

Oh God, Mitchell. I love you, but I can't stay. He's going to kill everyone close to me. Forgive me.

Looked like she was finding a new flat, pretty damn fast. No forwarding address.


	10. Scene 10 : Mitchell

**Final chapter. So you've read your way through about 11,500 words and I hope you've been entertained by them. Now that you've got to the end, why not spare me a dozen or so words of your own and let me know what you thought of it.**

* * *

He arrived at Josie's flat bearing chocolate. The roses had gone down well, but it seemed that the way to her heart was through the sweet stuff and plenty of it. He'd happily help her out with it. He was needing plenty of calories now that he wasn't feeding. Tough job, but someone had to do it.

He took the stairs to her flat three at a time, eating up the steps with his long legs and beaming at the thought of seeing her again. His hunger was forgotten for a time in anticipation of seeing the person he had started to care so much for, the one who was keeping him good. Hand out ready to knock sharply on the door.

A man knelt on the landing, screwdriver in hand, changing the lock. Mitchell stopped abruptly, gift-wrapped chocolates under his arm. "What's going on?"

The man sat back on his haunches, wiping his hands on greasy blue overalls. "Changing the locks, mate. Bird that moved out didn't return all the keys she was given – one missing. Standard practice to change the lock before letting it out again if all the keys don't come back. It'll get taken out of her deposit. The landlord is especially hot on security after what happened to those girls upstairs – people are jumpy about renting in this block now and it's not good for business."

He moved out of the way of the door to let Mitchell inside. "You here to look around? Go ahead, I'll be done in a tick. If you want it, I'd get on to the landlord pretty fast; there was another chap here just ahead of you. Mind you, the other fellow didn't stay long - he can hardly even have looked around properly - maybe it wasn't what he was looking for."

Mitchell pushed the door and it swung open.

His eyes flickered over the coat hooks in the hallway. Josie's coats and scarves were gone – all the paraphernalia that had stamped her presence on the flat as soon as you stepped in. Standing for a moment in the doorway he breathed in deeply. He could smell her; the perfume that she used lingering even though she had left. Ma Griffe. She had kept it on her bedside cabinet. It would always remind him of her.

"You going in, mate? Only I've got work to do here."

In the living room, some of the furniture remained. The bookshelf he had tied her to. The sofa where they had... but he couldn't think about that. The dance posters were gone and the bookshelves were empty. The photographs were gone from the mantelpiece. It was just another flat now.

The bathroom door stood open. All her make up and cosmetics were gone – the basin stood empty, toothbrush and toothpaste hastily thrown in a bag before she left for... where? The sun shone through the frosted glass on which she had written "HELP" in red lipstick. All spotless. Somehow he had known she would have cleaned the bathroom, however quickly she had left.

He couldn't bear to go into the bedroom – no sense torturing himself more than he needed to. His throat clenched as he considered going on without her. In a short time she had become central to his life – a stable point for him to rely on as he tried to stop the killing. His eyes stung as he pushed open the door of the kitchen and saw the note propped up on the cooker top.

"I'm sorry, Mitchell, I have to go. Things have changed and I can't take the risk. I'm scared. It's too dangerous. Don't try to find me. Josie."

So that was it. Barely four lines to shatter what he thought he had. It occurred to him that he'd never even seen her handwriting before and yet it looked familiar, somehow.

He left the flat, his footsteps echoing in the empty hall.

"What you're looking for, then? You going to take it?" The locksmith looked cheerily up at him.

"Huh? No. It's not right for me." He started to go down the stairs then turned abruptly. "Say, you got a wife? Girlfriend?"

"Sure, wife and two kids."

"Give her these, then. Tell her you love her." Mitchell set the chocolates down on the landing. He'd had the girl in the shop gift wrap them; the guy's wife would think she'd forgotten her own birthday or something. He'd get something else to eat. Maybe suck on a jugular, damn it. What was the point of staying clean now if he didn't have her to stay clean for?

Outside, he sat on a wall and lit up a cigarette, the note still in his hand. He reread the note, such as it was, then flicked his lighter again and held the flame close to the paper.

"_Cut all ties with who you are, soldier. You're not that man any more."_

He couldn't do it. Mitchell shut the lighter with a snap, crumpling the letter in his hand and thrusting it deep into his jacket pocket. It nestled there beside the ballet dancer key fob - the keys that he had never used. The keys that she'd lost her deposit for. His shoulders slumped. Would he truly never see her again? He glanced up at her window, half expecting to see her standing there watching and waiting for him.

The front door opened and the locksmith came out carrying his bag of tools. He nodded when he saw Mitchell. "You need a lift somewhere, mate?"

"No. I'm fine. Cheers." Where would he go, anyway? Where was there for someone like him except back with his own kind? Mitchell pushed his hand into his pocket and grasped the key, feeling the edge of the metal jagged against his skin.

He wouldn't try to find her. She had been clear on that. Whatever had happened, it had been enough to make her leave without saying goodbye, even though she knew what that would cost him. Right now he wanted to kill: to find a victim and drink them dry, finding solace in human blood as a drunk would in the bottom of a pint glass. But he wouldn't. For her.

"_You're not that man any more."_

Damn it. He _could_ still be that man. It would be harder without Josie, but he could try, at least, and maybe someday there would be someone else for whom he could care as much. Someone who could love him no matter who or what he was. She had shown that it was at least possible. In the meantime he would keep Josie's key as a reminder of how far he had come, and of how far he still hoped to travel.

He left, hands deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched and head bowed. One day at a time, like any other addict. One day at a time, for as long as he lived. But Josie had given him hope that he might not have to be alone forever.


End file.
